


This is aching (I am tragedy incarnate)

by olivemartini



Series: All The Lovely Ones Have Scars [12]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Infinity War, grieving tony, he's playing the piano, mentions of Maria Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: Most of the things in Tony's house are just for decoration, something that Stane had talked him into buying, which is why Pepper's so surprised when she walks into the house and finds him playing the piano.





	This is aching (I am tragedy incarnate)

Most of the things in Tony's house ( _the parts that aren't locked down with security codes_ ) are just for decoration, something that Stane had talked him into buying to make this place a little less hollow.  They're pretty things, expensive things that take Pepper's breath away, but they seem sort of insubstantial all the same, like they could float away and no one would even notice.  Pepper supposes it's just a side affect of having the money to buy anything you want, because you never have to learn the value of material things, when you can replace it just as easy as you gathered it.  Anything that Tony deems important in the workshop, and it's there that Pepper has begun to learn what matters to him- DUM-E, the chipped coffee mugs, his cars (both the fast ones for show and the ones he buys just to tear apart), the old beaten down couch where he sleeps when the exhaustion finally forces him to his knees.

It's why she's so surprised when she walks into the house to find him playing the piano.

He didn't know she was there.  That was clear from the moment the sound drew her out of her office ( _because she has one of those now_ ), and even the sound of her heels clicking on the tile wasn't enough to draw him away, not the with how he was playing, like this was another extension of himself, getting lost in the tide of the music the way he gets pulled along the tsumani wave of his inventions, like he just had to see it through even if it kills him.

And it's beautiful.

 _He's beautiful,_ she thinks, watching him, and then shoves the thought away, because people in her position are not allowed to have thoughts like that about someone like him.  They are not allowed to want.

But he is, God, he is, and he's even more so when he thinks that no one is watching.  He's still in clothes from last night, the shirt sleeves shoved up to his elbows and his shoes kicked off in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, searching out the keys from memory, which begs the question how she had not known this before, if he can sit here and play without even looking.  She watches him for a while, standing in the back of the room barely daring to breath, following the movement of his hands, and it almost takes her breath away, because she knows that these hands are strong, that they can destroy ( _she has seen bruises bloom and oil spill and gears tear apart, watch glass shatter and plaster crack underneath those hands_ ) but it would be wrong of her to forget that they can also create, too, and this is the thing that she had been missing:  he can make inventions, but most of the time he just creates beauty, because everything he makes, every invention he pulls out of his mind and works himself to the bone to bring to life is a piece of art, and its made that way because he, Tony, is made that way, like all the stardust has collected in his veins and spills out in something like magic.

When he finishes, there is only silence, too quiet in the sudden of absence of his music, and he slumps over the piano, head in his hands, the keys knocking together in a clang when he presses his weight down onto them, a scream compared to the song that he had been producing only seconds before, and she can't stand it, can't stand the look on his face and the knowledge that it is pain that drives him here, pain that forces him to create and pain that will be left for him when it is over.  Sometimes, she thinks that all he knows how to feel is pain, and then he smiles at her and she thinks that she must be kidding herself, because someone who can look at you like that must have some shred of happiness inside of him, no matter how deeply buried.

"I didn't know you could play."  She steps away from the wall, and he jumps, the keys screaming again when his arm slips down to lay across them.  "It was very good."

He's watching her, wary, like a cat does when they decide whether they should pounce or run away.  Fight or flight.  Pepper had thought they were beyond that.

"I didn't know you were there."  He reaches a hand out, but then falters, because she has folders to give him and he still can't stomach the thought of being handed things.

"I'm glad I was."  She sits down on the bench beside him, let's her hand play over the keys, but they do not come close to sounding like they had.  "I thought it was just for decoration."

"I play sometimes.  When I..."  He doesn't finish the sentence.  Pepper doesn't ask him to.

"Did you teach yourself?"  He had taught himself so many things.  Tech, languages, math.  He's had to learn everything on his own.

"No.  My mom, she..."  He falters again, and Pepper runs through dates in her mind, trying to see if this was a day that she had missed, and came up with nothing.  There didn't have to be a reason.  Sometimes you just remember the people you loved and lost, whether you want to or not.  "She taught me.  It was one of the only things we did together."

Pepper doesn't look at him.  He doesn't look at her.

"She could have paid somebody.  I was really awful, I didn't want to learn.  Fought her every chance I got.  Told her it was stupid."  He slams his hands down on the keys, once, and then launches into some song she does not recognize, loud, angry, ferocious, manic.  Hurting.  "Everyone told me I was a genius, even back then.  I should have known better."

"You were a child,"  She says, and he looks at her in such surprise that she wonders if anyone had ever thought to tell him that, that these imagined sins would not taint him forever.  "It wasn't your responsibility to know."

"I miss her.  Not my dad, so much."  His hands are still tapping on the piano, and Pepper has the feeling if she had not come up, he would still be playing, playing the same way he works down in his workshop, like it's his only purpose in life, like he needs it to breathe, like it is the only thing that can get rid of the ache.  "It's amazing, how much you can still hurt."

Pepper does not have anything to say to that.  She does not know much of grief, and not on this level.  It is not her place, anyways. She wants to help him, but she does not have the ability to want.

She gets to her feet, and he looks so lost that she cannot bear to leave him, just circles behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder, lets it go from his shoulder to his back and then return, wondering if it is a comfort.  He leans into her, so she decides it must be.

Pepper leans down and rests her head on top of his, buries her fingers in his hair for one second, two, three.  It's much too long, and she makes a note to schedule him for a haircut, or maybe just do it herself.  

"Play me something,"  She says, curling up on the couch with her paperwork, feet tucked up underneath her, and the request makes him look a little less lost, like he has something to fill the ache.  

(It's beautiful and it's tragic, and she has to turn away to hide the fact that she has tears gathering in her eyes.  If he saw, he would have stopped, and she doesn't want that.)

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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